


Put Up Your [Daisy] Dukes

by Noelleian



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Country Bumpkins, Alternate Universe - Southern United States, Bouncer!Tro, Crack, Get Together, Humor, M/M, Mention of sex, Quat In Daisy Dukes, So Much Crack You Could Smoke It And Get Wasted, Southern Dialect, metaphors like whoa, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 16:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11338821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noelleian/pseuds/Noelleian
Summary: Quatre is a small-town, southern boy with aspirations that don't include spending the rest of his life as trailer trash, but for now, he's forced to wait tables at a dive in rural Georgia until he can save enough money for college. Though with a hot new bouncer on the payroll, maybe things are finally looking up.





	Put Up Your [Daisy] Dukes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moreena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moreena/gifts), [SoftNocturne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftNocturne/gifts).



> Don't blame me. Jess put me up to it. xD
> 
> It's kind of a Dukes of Hazzard-esque story, but no orange car, Boss Hog, or incest vibes. 
> 
> Hope you guys like it!

It took an extraordinary amount of patience to work this job. If you didn’t have that in spades, you wouldn’t last long in a place like this. Around these here parts, nine-to-five gigs were rare. Country folk often took whatever jobs were available and sometimes those jobs weren’t all that dignified.

As Quatre’s pappy used to say, “Pride ain’t never gonna amount to a hill of beans, boy. If I had my druthers, me an’ your mam would be livin’ it up in one of them purdy permamant houses on the other side of town, but since she swapped spit an’ hit the road with Uncle Jesse, I reckon I’m just worn slap out.”

His pappy never could pronounce the word ‘permanent’, but God rest his soul, he was right. In this world, if you wanted to get anywhere, sometimes it was necessary to swallow your pride and get the job done.

Of course, it required a constant reminder, especially when you felt the tips of meaty fingers tugging on the loose threads of your cutoff shorts which, as the owner of this beatnik bar had told him time and again was the mandatory ‘uniform’. The tight, pale yellow cropped t-shirt with 'Joe’s Beers and Buns' written across the chest in bright blue letters completed the twink-ish ensemble.

_If I looked any gayer, I'd be buck nekkid on my knees with a dick in my mouth._

Every time Quatre put the uniform on, he couldn’t help but feel like a cheap slut preparing for a trip to the bathhouse off the interstate where gay men were known for skulking about in the hopes of a road handy, or if they were really lucky, a lewinsky. Some did get lucky. Others wound up taking a ride downtown in the back of the Sheriff’s, or one of his Deputy’s squad cars to sleep of his ‘public indecency’ charges in the tank.

He was accustomed to being propositioned, groped, and manhandled. It was simply part of the job and all of the young men who served the patrons had to deal with it. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d had to tell an overly zealous man that he was only paid to serve mugs of beer and greasy platters of burgers and fries...and nothing else.

Some were respectful enough to reign themselves back in, others needed a little more coaxing. Usually in the form of one of the bouncers hauling them out on their asses by the scruff of their necks. This wasn’t a brothel, for Christ’s sake. It was just a little hole-in-the-wall tavern a few miles off the highway where truckers whose tastes were geared towards attractive young men went to rest their weary behinds for a few hours before hitting the dusty trail once again.

It wasn’t as if the Sheriff didn’t constantly have a keen eye on this place, watching for any signs of ‘degeneracy’. Never mind that there were at least a dozen dives just like this where the booty-short servers were female. The Sheriff and his deputies didn't seem all that concerned about any heterosexual ‘funny bid'ness’. Of course the fags were the ones most likely up to something skeevy.

And Quatre sure as hell wasn’t taking any risks. Not that any of these men actually appealed to him. It was just a job and the tips were nothing to thumb his nose at. He’d been saving them for the better part of three years and each shift brought him a little closer to a college dorm room and a little further from his late father’s beaten-down trailer.

He swore to every deity he could think of that when he was finally able to walk away from that rusty piece of shit for the last time, it would be with an empty gas can in one hand and lit match in the other. A flippant toss of said match over his shoulder and he could kiss this trailer trash life goodbye.

As he took his empty tray back over to the bar to retrieve his next order, he caught the smoldering green eye of one of the bouncers and blushed at wink that was sent his way. Trowa had been working there for nearly six months. He was one of those mysterious drifter types, the kind of man that never failed to make Quatre weak in the knees.

He was tall, dark, and drop-dead gorgeous, deliciously filling out the thin black cotton of his t-shirt which had the same logo that Quatre’s did, though with the added ‘Bouncer’ spelled across the back. As if his physique wasn’t enough to give away his position. Unlike the slenderness of the servers and the stockiness of the customers, Trowa had that distinctive bouncer build.

From the neutral, yet intimidating expression on his chiseled face, to the arms roped with muscle that were folded across his powerful chest, to the wide-legged stance that simply oozed strength and dominance, Trowa was the embodiment of the perfect man. A living, breathing personification of the handsome and noble knight in shining armor and the allure of the seductive, yet sinister villain that Quatre had read and fantasized about in every volume of his growing collection of gay bodice-rippers.

He likened himself to the beautiful, yet naive prince, or in his case, the young peasant boy who doth protest a little too much as he was laid out on a bed of wild flowers, flushed like a maiden on her wedding night. A soft whisper of, “Please do be gentle with me, my good Sir,” was lost in a breathy moan as he was plundered by his hero until he shouted loud enough to wake his pappy in the next room who came rushing in, armed with his double-barrel shotgun and his brown mullet akimbo with sleep.

Embarrassing nocturnal emissions aside, Trowa was his hottest fantasy come to life. They’d been flirting ever since he was hired to oversee the security of the staff, but as of yet, neither had made a move to take it to the next level. After five and a half months, this constant dancing around each other was getting a tad ridiculous and Quatre's patience was just beginning to wear thin. Maybe it was high time to throw all caution to the wind and ask the man out.

“You ever gonna get off yer ass and ask Barton on a date, or am I gonna be forced to watch this soap opera play out for the rest of my miserable life?”

Quatre glared at the bartender and shoved his order slip across the wooden surface without a word. Jasper was a good guy. Observant as bartenders often were and delegated to the role of therapist which he seemed to take some measure of pride in. Jasper shrugged and picked up the slip, scanning the order before grabbing a clean pitcher and shoving it under the Miller draft nozzle. “Jus’ sayin’,” he muttered as a half-apology.

Quatre softened a little and glanced back towards the door where Trowa stood like an imposing gargoyle at the entrance of a castle. Only his eyes moved, roaming over the heads of the boisterous patrons for any sign of indecent behavior. “I’m workin’ up to it,” he said as he turned back towards Jasper.

“Don’t be a damn pussy, Winner.” Jasper placed the pitcher of beer onto Quatre’s tray and grabbed four mugs from the hooks above his balding head. Quatre stared at the shine of his scalp, blue from the dusky lighting and barely covered by a bad combover. The rest of his thinning hair hung in limp, greasy strings around his neck and shoulders.

_It’s two thousand seven in the year of our Lord, but good God, this town is perpetually stuck in nineteen seventy nine._

He leaned forward and lowered his voice to prevent eavesdropping. “I ain’t bein’ a pussy. This is the man of my dreams, okay? One does not approach this situation lightly.”

“Well, yer sure doin’ a bangup job either way.” Jasper plopped the mugs into a circle around the pitcher and jerked his chin over Quatre’s shoulder. “Gettin’ a little antsy over there.”

He glanced behind him and groaned when a man at one of his tables made a lewd gesture at him. Scowling, he turned back to pick up his tray. “I ain’t in the mood for this shit today.”

“Suck it up, cupcake. S’yer job so get over there, wiggle yer ass, and make ‘em think they got a chance with ya,” Jasper told him with a wink and a snap of his Juicy Fruit gum.

Quatre gave him a murderous look and spun around, making sure to wipe the sour expression off his face before he approached the table. _Do it for the tips,_ he reminded himself and forced a smile, showing off the impressive results of his pappy’s dental plan.

“Here y’all go, gentlemen,” he said with exaggerated enthusiasm as he set the pitcher down and then the mugs. Clutching the empty tray to his chest, he cocked his hip and asked, “Would y’all like to order now, or should I come back in a few minutes?”

A dark-haired man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties made a show of looking over the menu with a confused expression and then turned his beady eyes on Quatre. “I don’t see you on here, darlin’.”

Amidst the round of snickers from his buddies, Quatre suppressed the overwhelming desire to roll his eyes right out of their sockets. _As if I ain't heard that line a thousand times already since I started this shift._ Instead, he smiled sweetly and replied, “‘Fraid not, Sir. But we have a wonderful selection of burgers and hoagies, fish and chips, our famous spicy chili, or our cooks can whip up our down-home special of hog’s feet, chitlins, collard greens, and sweet potato pie.”

The guy blinked at him dumbly for a moment and then leaned back in his chair, his gaze landing on the neon sign over the bar that read ‘Joe’s Beers and Buns’ in swooping blue letters and Quatre knew what was coming before the man’s thoughts escaped between his bulbous lips.

“But the sign says _Beers_ and _Buns_ ,” he drawled, dragging out the vowels as if he were talking to a toddler. “The only buns I’m interested in are the ones stuffed in those little bitty shorts of yers. Know what I’m sayin’?”

 _Okay, he’s one of those guys,_ Quatre thought and braced himself for trouble, though he kept his demeanor soft and polite. _Like a good Southern boy,_ his mam’s voice, weakened with cancer echoed inside his head. He cleared his throat and said, “My apologies, Sir, but this is a respectable establishment. Might I suggest -”

That was as far as he got before his arm was grabbed by a meaty hand. He yelped, staggering as he was yanked down into the man’s lap. He shoved the pawing hands away, snarling in rage when one of them pushed between his legs and he spat in the pervert’s face.

He hissed and unleashed a string of curses that would make his pappy proud when his other arm was grabbed and the room upended once again as he was yanked off the man’s lap. He spun queasily and grabbed hold of an empty bar stool nearby to halt his momentum and then twirled around, watching Trowa lift the guy out of his chair by his collar.

There was a pregnant pause, a moment of eerie quiet that made Quatre think of those old western films his pappy used to watch. The quiet before the storm, when some derelict in dusty clothes and lowered hat had been caught cheating at a game of poker and the stillness of anticipation right before a gunfight broke out. He half-expected Jasper to duck behind the counter and appear again with a Winchester rifle and a clipped, “Now git out before I pump ya full o’lead, son.”

But for Quatre, something inside his mind clicked. Maybe it was the fact that he’d lost count of the number of times he’d been subjected to this caveman behavior. Maybe he was simply fed up with being treated like a toy.

Maybe he was tired of watching other people fight his battles for him.

He strode forward, purpose in every step until he reached Trowa and the now quivering man who was about to find himself face-down in the gravel that made up Joe’s Beers and Buns’ parking lot. Which wasn’t going to happen until Quatre got a little payback of his own.

“Trowa, let him go.”

The incredulity on the bouncer’s face was priceless, but Quatre was too pissed off to find the humor in it. He flicked his hand at him while keeping his narrow-eyed gaze on the man who huffed and straightened out his shirt once he was released from Trowa’s iron grip. He felt like a young David facing off with Goliath as he stepped between them and stared up at the guy’s scruffy and now somewhat blotchy face.

“Now, I don’t know how things are done where y’all are from, but ‘round these here parts, we don’t put up with that kind of bulldung. I want an apology. Now.”

Predictably, the man scoffed and jerked his thumb at Quatre as he glanced behind him at his friends who appeared more apprehensive than amused. Quatre didn’t fool himself into believing they were afraid of him, but rather the wall of solid muscle standing behind him.

“Get a load of this shit. Kid’s gotta stand up twice just to cast a shadow an’ he thinks he gon’ mess with me,” the man chortled and then turned back to Quatre. “Now look here, sweetheart. Don’t be goin’ off with yer pistol all half-cocked. I ain’t got time for -”

Quatre didn’t wait for the rest. Operating on raw fury alone, he swung his fist and popped the man in the jaw. His head swung to the right, eyes rolling back into his head, but Quatre didn’t give him a chance to recover. He gripped the broad shoulders and drove his knee up into the man’s groin as hard as he could and watched with vindictive glee as he dropped to the floor, howling in pain.

He spun around and saw the surprise on Trowa’s face and...dare he say it? He actually looked impressed.

“Get rid of this trash,” he ordered and walked over to the bar where Jasper was staring with his jaw hanging low on its hinges. Quatre pulled three singles out of his tips and slapped them onto the counter. “Jack. Straight up. Make it a double.”

Jasper’s mouth snapped shut and he blurted a reverent, “S’on the house,” as he bent down and grabbed the bottle of whiskey and a shot glass, then thought better of it and grabbed two glasses.

Quatre clinked them together with a wink and a chirpy, “Cheers,” and then tipped the glass back, drinking the whole thing at once.

Jasper finished his own a little more slowly, but pointed at the bottle and smirked. “‘Nother one?”

He shook his head and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Nah. There’s somethin’ I gotta do,” he told him, climbing off the stool and heading over to the door where Trowa was booting out the last of the man’s friends. He waited for the door to close and cleared his throat, the whiskey and adrenaline running through his veins chasing away the last of his nerves.

“Trowa, you’re finer than a frog’s hair split three times and I reckon yer Mama raised you right. You wanna go on a date with me?”

His heart was beating quicker than a jackrabbit about to mate as he watched the shock on the bouncer’s face melt into something resembling a smile. Trowa dipped his head in affirmation and reached for Quatre’s hand. “I would be honored,” he murmured and then pressed a kiss to the backs of his fingers.

Quatre felt a rush of the vapors coming on, but he hid it well, grinning up at the man of his dreams with a confidence that was new and a little frightening. _Don’t swoon. For the love of God, do not swoon._

_Fuck, I want to have your babies. Marry me?_

“Great. Friday work for you?”

“Friday sounds perfect.”

“I’ll give you my address. You can pick me up at eight. Wear something sharp,” he said and then spun on his heel, quickly making his way to the men’s room where he collapsed in a shaking heap with his back against the door. He felt like he was going to puke while at the same time, he was flying higher than the clouds in the sky.

Once the initial dizziness and elation had passed, the throb in his hand became noticeable and then demanding. He examined it closely. It was swollen and red and would likely bruise, but he was certain it wasn’t broken. A few days of rest and some packs of ice and it would right as rain. Oh, but it had been so worth it. He chuckled and wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow. He felt powerful, reborn, and ready to take on the world.

“Bouncer I ain’t, but from now on, ain’t nobody gonna put a hitch in my giddyup.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck, this is so corny. *hides*


End file.
